Sherlock's Chair is Suspiciously Wet
by tonilouise95
Summary: In which there is scone baking and seat taking! 221B receives an uninvited guest of the four footed variety, which provides quite the challenge for the Great Detective. Reviews welcome! Find co-writer Random Ruth here: /u/3129537/Random-Ruth
1. Chapter 1

**Authors Notes: Hi guys! So this is a short story co-written with the wonderful and ever funny Random Ruth. (go check out her stuff!) I wrote the odd numbered chapters and she wrote the even ones. She challenged me to start with the word "scone." And here is the result! The title will become clear a little later! Enjoy.**

* * *

**Chapter One: The Question of Brunch**

"Scone?"

John slowly looked up from his laptop, a quizzical look on his face. His gaze fell on the plate which was being held under his nose. There were three buttered cherry scones, which looked very tempting. John's quizzical look turned to a suspicious frown as he looked up at the man who was holding the plate. Said man flashed a small quick smile which instantly roused John's suspicions.

"Are they drugged?" he asked simply.

"Oh come on John! That was only the once," Sherlock replied looking genuinely irritated.

"What's wrong with them?" John continued, not in the least bit convinced.

"Nothing, why does there have to be something wrong with them?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"Because you never make food, of any kind… Hell, you don't even eat! Why start now?"

"I am offended by your suspicious nature, John Watson!" Sherlock said matter-of-factly and moved to his armchair opposite, plate still in hand. John did not reply but went back to his blog. Silence ensued. After about five minutes John peeked over his laptop at Sherlock. He was staring at the scones with a frown on his face, apparently deep in thought. He looked frustrated.

"Trying to get them to confess?" John asked lightly, a small smile spreading across his face. The look he received from Sherlock's piercing eyes quickly made it vanish. John sighed heavily. "Look, Sherlock, the last time you made something for me to consume, it was because you had drugged it, or believed you had… Do you blame me for being suspicious? Why did you prepare the scones?" Sherlock sniffed a little and glanced the other way, sulking a bit before answering.

"You're hungry."

"How do you know that?" John asked, but just as he did, his stomach gave him away and let out a grumble. Sherlock smirked triumphantly.

"You haven't eaten today and it's half eleven, obviously you are hungry, John. And I believe it is making you grumpy." Sherlock added the last part with a sly look. John pulled a face.

"Fine! On one condition."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question. "You eat one as well, you haven't eaten either."

"I don't need to eat John," Sherlock whined like a five year old girl. John gave a bark of laughter, to which Sherlock looked down at the plate sulkily. He picked up a scone and offered the plate to John. John closed his laptop and took a scone as well, narrowing his eyes at it despite himself. "On the count of three, we eat," Sherlock declared as if it were a duel to the death, not brunch.

"One," Sherlock started.

"Two," John continued, holding the other man's gaze.

"Three!" they both said together.

Then the doorbell rang.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Four Feet**

Despite his stomach's loud protests, John set the scone down again. Sherlock threw his onto the floor, where it smashed, and sprayed cherries all over the carpet. Before John could say anything, Sherlock was clattering down the stairs loudly. John heard the door closing, and heard three sets of feet coming up the stairs.

The first set was the fastest. And there were four of them. John stood up just as a golden retriever bounded into the room. Its slobbery tongue lolled wildly to one side, its tail wagging so enthusiastically it could demolish the building. It spotted John and ran at him, banging sideways into his legs before he could stop it. The dog's attention was caught by Sherlock's smashed scone on the floor. It trotted over and started to enthusiastically eat the crumbs and cherries.

The second set of feet belonged to who must have been the dog's owner. She was a woman of about seventy, John thought rather vaguely, with a thinning head of grey curly hair. She was out of breath from the climb up the stairs. "Sam!" she said to the dog. The dog looked up and obediently trotted over to sit at her feet. She noticed John then, and adopted an embarrassed expression. "I'm so sorry about that, he just gets so excited in new places." She chuckled slightly, looking down at Sam.

The third set of feet was hovering behind the old woman, clearly frustrated at being held back on his journey up the stairs. The woman took a few steps forward, and Sherlock slipped past her and into the room. "This is Mrs. Morton," he said as he threw himself into his chair.

"Take a seat," John said to Mrs. Morton, and he gestured at his chair that faced Sherlock's. She sat down. John was about to apologise for the mess on the floor, but then noticed it was almost all gone. He sat down at his desk next to his laptop.

All of this sitting down was far too exciting for Sam, who promptly ran over to jump up onto Sherlock's lap. Sherlock tensed, but the dog changed course and instead crawled underneath Sherlock's chair to reach for another cherry.

"Oh, Sam, come 'ere," Mrs. Morton said again, but this time the dog was not to be moved. She sighed, went to stand up.

"Forget about the dog," Sherlock said, and John could hear the frustration in his voice. "Please tell me you know someone who's died recently and you don't know why and you want answers—"

"Sherlock..." John started in warning, only to be blatantly ignored, as usual.

"—to all of your impossible questions." He leaned back in his chair and Sam reached up to lick his hand, which he snatched away. Sam entertained himself by licking the leather of Sherlock's chair. John could already see a damp patch forming. "Am I right?"

Mrs. Morton though for a moment. "Well, I suppose there was that Mr. Thomas..." she began.

"Yes?" prompted Sherlock, leaning forwards again. There was a light behind his eyes that only existed when there was an interesting case on the way. Either that or he was allergic to dogs. John wasn't sure which.

Mrs. Morton took her time with every word. "He died a little while back but I can't for the life of me remember why."

"And you want me to find out. How long ago were these events?" Sherlock asked eagerly.

"It must have been, oh, the 1980s at least." This she seemed more certain of.

"A cold case? Interesting. Tell me more."

It was then that Mrs. Hudson entered the room, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. "I've made everyone some tea. Oh. I see you've got a client," she said, but then Mrs. Morton turned around. "Annie!"

"Ah, Maggie," said Mrs. Morton, smiling when she saw Mrs. Hudson.

"You two know each other?" John asked.

Mrs. Hudson crossed the room and set the tray down on the table beside John's laptop, just out reach of Sam who was still sniffing around Sherlock's chair. Sherlock was giving the dog glances of disgust every few moments. Mrs. Morton stood up with some effort. The two women shared a brief but warm hug.

"I met Annie years ago at a car boot. She had these great vases. I've still got those, you know! Come on downstairs and I'll show you them," Mrs. Hudson said, taking Mrs. Morton by the arm and heading for the door.

"But she's my client, don't take her away to look at your vases yet, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, standing now. Sam took the opportunity to jump up to sit on Sherlock's chair. Sherlock didn't notice.

Mrs. Hudson paused and looked at Mrs. Morton. "Who's died?" she asked, worried.

"Someone called Mr. Thomas," said John. He was trying to hold back a smile as Sam stretched out on Sherlock's chair.

"Cold case, very important that it is solved," added Sherlock helpfully.

"Mr. Thomas? But he died of a heart attack years ago," Mrs. Hudson said, relaxing then.

"Oh, yes, that's what it was. I couldn't remember earlier on. Where are these vases then?" said Mrs. Morton.

"Just downstairs. Come on, I'll make us some nice tea and we can catch up." Mrs. Morton glanced back at Sam. Mrs. Hudson noticed. "Don't worry, the boys will look after him, won't you?" They left and closed the door behind them before either could answer. John could hear them talking as they made their way to 221A.

There was silence for a few moments before John spoke. "What exactly did she say to you when she arrived?"

Sherlock didn't look at him. "'Oh dear, my dog's lead's broken'. And she started going upstairs." He sighed.

John couldn't stop himself, he burst out laughing. "That is going on the blog! That is priceless!" Tears were forming in his eyes, but he didn't care. Sherlock glared at him and he laughed all the harder.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: For the Love of Dogs**

As John began to type again at his blog there was a low whine from the direction of Sherlock's seat. Sam was demanding to have attention. Sherlock turned towards the noise suddenly, only just remembering the newest addition to 221B. His eyes narrowed at the dog, who gave a lopsided grin in response. Sherlock sniffed and moved towards the kitchen. Sam made a chuffing noise, turning his attention towards John who was just in reach at the desk. John looked at him and grinned, turning so he could stroke him under the chin. Sam's tail started to pound against the leather chair and his whole body moved in tandem.

Once Sherlock had found nothing of interest in the kitchen he returned to the living room to find Sam still spread across his chair, now on his back. With John rigorously scratching his stomach and chest, making little noises and grinning like a child. Both looked completely contented and Sherlock smiled at how much younger that smile made John look. He quickly dropped the smile before it could be seen, pushing down the pang of irrational jealousy he felt. He adjusted his jacket and sat in John's chair with a huff. Both Sam and John looked up from their game to take in the grim features which were studying them. Sam ignored this and resumed his tail wagging and smiling; John however cleared his throat awkwardly and straightened up.

"I used to have a dog when I was much younger..." he started, feeling the need to explain his behaviour.

"Obviously," was the stoic reply. Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and fixed his gaze on the animal.

"There were also dogs out in Afghanistan. They were strays and often would befriend the soldiers. It was good company, something to look after, keep the hopes of the men high," John continued quietly. He rarely talked of his time in the war and as he did, his fingers absentmindedly stroked through Sam's thick fur.

Sherlock mumbled something that John didn't catch; he was far away in his own thoughts though it sounded like _ridiculous. _John let it slide, coming back to the room and resuming his belly scratching. Sam's back leg pounded the arm of the chair noisily; Sherlock frowned in disgust and stood up.

"Dogs carry all kinds of diseases, John, I'd be careful if I were you. Their saliva can contain Salmonella, roundworm… or worse," he started to list as he paced.

"Alright, Sherlock, I'm only stroking him, I'm not going to give him a snog! I'd love to have a dog again."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled at this but he continued to pace. "We don't know where it's been—" he stared at the dog then, eyes flashing this way and that. "Actually he's just walked through the nearby park, had a good rummage through one of the trash cans, walked through all the muddy puddles he could and then chased the ducks, ate the stale bread he could find and was only just stopped from rolling in what appears to be faeces!" John gave a sigh and ignored Sherlock, making more cooing noises at Sam who was clearly loving life. "John, that animal is depositing half of London, hair and saliva all over _my_ chair! An act you are helping it do by your constant conta—" Sherlock pulled a face.

_ACHOO!_

Both John and Sam bolted upright at the noise and Sam gave a startled bark. John looked up at Sherlock, trying and failing to cover the mirth on his face. Sherlock's eyes were watery and his face slightly flushed in the aftermath of the almighty sneeze that had exploded out of him. He blinked a few times, apparently shocked. John started to laugh and Sam bounded off Sherlock's chair and to its owner who stepped back harshly. The dog only followed and plonked himself down beside him, leaning against Sherlock's leg and looking up expectantly.

"Are you allergic to dogs, Sherlock?" John asked still laughing slightly.

"I-I didn't think so… Maybe that was a once off." Sherlock frowned down at Sam who was still leaning against his leg happily. Sherlock wriggled his nose a bit, screwing up his face. John giggled some more and got up.

"I'll go and see if Mrs. Hudson has any allergy tablets just in case." He headed for the door.

"No! Ahem, I mean, er... Do you really trust me with the animal?" Sherlock said quickly, hiding what John believed to be alarm. John grinned; he had a feeling that Sherlock did not hate the animal as much as he made out.

"Don't worry, Sherlock, he doesn't bite!" and with that he ran out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: Into Battle**

Sherlock listened to John's footsteps as he ran down the stairs. Sam quickly moved to take his place on Sherlock's chair again. Sherlock stood in the centre of the room, the only sounds that of the traffic outside and Sam's panting. John's chair was empty so he sat in it, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his lap. It was a soft chair, and Sherlock feared he'd sink into it at any moment. He was facing Sam now as if the dog was his next client.

Sam was dribbling onto the smooth black leather of his chair. In the space of three drips Sherlock came up with a plan. He leaned forwards and Sam looked at him. He opened his palms, adopted the same stupid grin that John had had when he'd been stroking the dog.

Spreading his arms wide, he said cheerfully, "Come on, dog! Come here!"

His voice was at a high pitch and Sam wagged his tail. Thump, thump, thump. His floppy ears pricked. His mouth formed a smile. _Don't be stupid, Sherlock, he's overheating_, he berated himself. But Sam hadn't vacated the chair.

He tried again. "Here, dog! That's my chair, come on now. Sherlock would like his chair back now, eh? You can have this itchy one. Mmm, itchy chair." He was doing his best to make an itchy chair sound appealing. Sam was still smil—overheating. But he still hadn't moved.

_Dogs react to sound and movement_, Sherlock remembered. He stood up and patted the chair's cushion. "Come here, dog!"

Sam looked at Sherlock's hand, the movement catching his eye. Then he looked at Sherlock's face – the false smile was beginning to hurt. Sam's eyes flicked up and down for a moment – Sherlock's face, his hand, face, hand – before he stood up himself. _Bingo_.

Only to turn around in Sherlock's chair so that he was facing the kitchen. He lay down and made himself comfortable, stretching his paws out and then relaxing again.

Sherlock paused to think for a moment before coming up with Plan B. He reversed over to his chair and began to slowly lower himself onto it. Perhaps the sight of a fully grown human being approaching from above would motivate the dog into moving. Sherlock could hear thumping, and he lowered himself further. A very wet and slobbery tongue began licking his ear. A laugh escaped his lips before he could stop himself. He straightened again immediately as if stung.

"Well played," he mumbled, and threw himself into John's chair again. He picked up a magazine and pretended to read it for a few minutes. Then Plan C popped into his head.

The plate of scones was still sitting on the desk behind John's laptop. Sam did appear to have a fondness for cherries. He threw the magazine to one side, not really caring where on the floor it ended up, and went to get a scone. He held the scone in front of the dog's wet nose and Sam licked his lips. Sherlock smirked. "Fetch!" he said and threw the scone in the general direction of the kitchen. Sam bolted into the kitchen after it.

Triumphant, a genuine grin on his face at having outsmarted the enemy, he threw himself into his chair. The leather was warm, covered in dog hairs and Sherlock could even feel a few wet patches through his trousers – but he didn't care because he had his chair back.

Sam was still licking his lips when he came back into the room, tell-tale crumbs on his nose. He saw Sherlock in his chair and trotted over to him, tail wagging. He started to lick Sherlock's hand. Sherlock batted him away, irritated. "Go and do whatever it is you do to entertain yourself, dog," he said. Sam put his nose to the floor and began doing a slow lap of the room. He stuck his nose into every corner, taking particular interest in whatever was under the sofa.

Sherlock picked up another magazine and actually started to read it. By the time he'd reached the third page, Sam had made his way back to him. But the dog wasn't looking at him so he kept his eyes on the pages. Sam jumped up so his front paws were on the mantelpiece. He craned his neck, stretching out until his nose touched the skull that lived there. He licked it once, and then nudged it. It fell, hitting him on the head on the way down.

He heard the crash, and looked at the source of noise in shock. He threw the magazine into the air, forgotten, as he dived to the floor to save his skull from being licked to death. Sam must have sensed the anger radiating from Sherlock, because he ran out of Sherlock's sight. Sherlock examined the skull – just a little crack, nothing really worth talking about. He sighed in relief and got up from the floor, placing the skull back on the mantelpiece.

His shoulders slumped when he saw Sam sitting up in his chair again, tail wagging and he was most definitely smiling. Sherlock glared at him.

When John arrived a few minutes later there were tears in Sherlock's eyes.

"Allergies," he said. Sherlock didn't look John in the eye, just held out his hand, palm-up, waiting for a tablet.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: Duty Calls**

Sherlock swallowed his allergy tablet and resumed his frustrated pacing, staring intently at Sam. John took a seat on his own chair happily. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the animal and tried to figure out how to remove him from his chair once more. John watched him curiously then looked at Sam happily snuggled on Sherlock's chair.

"Here, boy! Come on, Sam," he said in a light voice. Sam looked up then happily trotted over to sit at his feet obediently. Sherlock's jaw dropped despite himself. John gave him a triumphant grin and Sam seemed to imitate it, just to annoy him. Sherlock composed himself and with his nose in the air he sat in his seat again. Sherlock stared at the dog in challenge as he sat, trying to convey that it was his property and that he was boss here. Sam looked like he was regarding him as an idiot. _Now you're imagining things_,Sherlock thought to himself and closed his eyes. He leaned his head back and relaxed, taking comfort in his thoughts.

John looked at his flatmate then to the dog; Sam gave a grumble and another chuff. John happily obliged by stroking him once again.

There was silence and bliss for about four minutes when John said out of the blue, "Did you ever have any pets?" He raised his eyes to Sherlock, who as usual, ignored him. Not to be deterred John continued, "You must have at some point; I don't know a kid who hasn't demanded a pet." He then turned his attention to Sam and whispered, "He's not as big and mean as he makes out to be Sam, don't you pay him any attention. He's secretly a softy." It was this which got a reaction.

"Talking to animals is not a healthy occupation, Doctor. Some may view it as the first signs of mental… fault."

John smiled slightly, so he _was_ listening after all. There was a pause, during which John returned his attention to Sam.

"In answer to your question, I did once have a frog and a mouse when I was about six years old." Sherlock had not sat forward nor did he open his eyes. John's mind filled with images of a curly haired boy running after his brother and mother with a frog and placing the mouse where it would cause chaos. This made him chuckle to himself. This caught Sherlock's attention.

"I dissected them and compared their organ systems. It was quite enlightening," he finished simply. John stared at him, appalled, his mouth hanging open. Sherlock raised his head and opened one eyelid; he smirked at John's horrified expression. "Mummy wouldn't allow me to have any pets after that. Mycroft was allowed a budgie. Hardly fair." It took John a while to readjust his face, he was still turning it over in his mind and wondering what end the poor budgie had come to…

"WHAT IS TAKING THEM SO LONG?!" Sherlock suddenly exploded. This sent Sam running for the kitchen, whining as he did. John frowned up at the taller man who was now on his feet once more.

"It cannot take that long to 'catch up', what on earth could they have to talk about?! Life in the Victorian era? How perms went out of fashion?"

"Sherlock, that's what friends do… they talk, sometimes for hours." John tried to sound calming but at his mention of hours, Sherlock's eyes grew wide.

"I am going down and demanding that we be released of this burden!" He waved his hand in Sam's general direction. John stood just in time to catch his arm.

"No, Sherlock. Leave them to it. It is not very often that Mrs. Hudson has guests, it's the least we can do for her." John's voice held no argument and Sherlock returned to his chair dejected. He brought his knees up to his chest and produced a magnificent pout. John smirked and imagined that was how he looked when Mycroft got his budgie.

"Besides," John began slowly, opening up a newspaper and bringing it up to cover his face, "Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Morton have gone out for lunch together." He winced as he finished, imagining Sherlock's response.

Sherlock took a few breaths before replying as lightly as possible, "Why did you not inform me of this earlier, John?"

"I didn't think it was relevant? And I assumed you had heard them leave," John tried, still wincing. Sherlock pulled a face realising he had been concentrating so much on his battle of wills with Sam that he hadn't noticed his landlady leaving.

To John's surprise, there was no sudden outburst; he lowered the newspaper slightly to peer over at the detective. Sherlock's face was turned towards the window, concentration on his features. Then he was up and reaching for his coat off the back of the door. In the next minute DI Lestrade walked into the flat, he nodded as he saw Sherlock preparing to leave with him. John once again caught the detective's arm. He received a frustrated glare, which he ignored.

"What about the dog?" John asked, pointing at Sam who had been almost forgotten.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: The Argument**

Sherlock looked at John, then at Sam who was sniffing around John's desk, and then at Lestrade. "Oh, come on, John," he said. "It's just a dog. Shut it in the bathroom for a while. It won't mind, I'm sure. Come on." He grabbed John's arm and attempted to pull him along after him. John didn't budge. Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"We said we'd look after Sam, Sherlock," John pointed out.

"No, _Mrs. Hudson_ said we'd look after it. _We _said _nothing_," he hissed, angry at this delay. He wanted to knee-deep in the crime scene. "Let the bar of soap you like look after it – I hear it's good with animals."

"This isn't a joke, Sherlock!" John was getting frustrated. "We can't leave him locked in the bathroom..." He caught Sherlock's eye. "Or any room. We'll have to bring him with us."

The verdict on that little statement was unanimous. "_No_!" Sherlock and Lestrade said at the same time.

"No way. I'm not having a dog at my crime scene. It could contaminate vital evidence," Lestrade said and he wasn't going to accept any arguments. That didn't stop Sherlock from trying though.

"Oh, Lestrade, you have dogs at crime scenes all the time," he said, tilting his head slightly.

"Yeah, _police_ dogs."

Sherlock held Lestrade's gaze. "It is a police dog, isn't it, John?"

Taken aback by this new development, John just managed, "Uh..."

"See? He's confirmed it. That is a fully trained member of the canine police force." He was jabbing his arm behind him as he spoke to emphasise his point.

The detective inspector was unconvinced. He had his I've-won-this-argument look on his face. "It's pissing on the carpet."

John spun round on the spot. "Sherlock, he is!" Sam had lifted his leg and there was a dampening patch of carpet dangerously close to Sherlock's chair. He dashed over and grabbed Sam by the collar quickly. Bent over, John led him to Lestrade and Sherlock who were just inside the door.

Lestrade was trying very hard not to laugh. Sherlock's nose twitched and he looked down at Sam. "That is disgusting," he said flatly.

"Says the man who keeps severed heads in the fridge?" John asked. "He hasn't been outside all afternoon. I need to take him outside..." He glanced around the room, trying to find something that would work as a temporary lead, but the search was fruitless. "Give me your scarf," he said to Sherlock. When no scarf was offered, he held out his hand. "Scarf. Now." Sherlock huffed, rolled his eyes, but reluctantly handed John his precious blue scarf. John looped it through Sam's collar and led him down the stairs. "Back in a minute."

Lestrade clapped his hands together, looking ridiculously smug. "Right, well, I've got a case to solve. See ya!" He turned to leave.

"No, no, no, wait. Have you got Wi-Fi at the crime scene?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: Much Ado about Nothing**

Lestrade shook his head.

"Oh no! I'm not carting a laptop around just because you can't leave the flat!"

"Do you want to solve the case or not?" Sherlock snapped irritably. Lestrade had learnt not to take offense to Sherlock's insults but he still pulled a face.

"It's not happening." Sherlock gave Lestrade a look that would probably have worked had Sherlock been a woman. As it was, he still didn't back down.

"Get Anderson to carry the laptop, if you don't want to!" Sherlock said with a gleeful smile. "I want this case, Lestrade. I _need _a case, any case. Anything at all!"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade snapped him out of his rant. "The answer is no." He finished sternly and when he turned to leave, Sherlock regretfully let him go. He walked briskly to the window and watched his chance at freedom drive away. He picked up his violin and started to play a mournful tune. His frustration grew as he thought about how Sam was the cause of his entrapment in the flat. The melody picked up pace and anger. He had to get out, there were cases to be solved and criminals to catch, how could he stay in when London was being so wonderfully interesting? Then an idea formed in his mind.

_Brilliant! _He thought to himself. He only had minutes before John would return; he would have to work quickly.

John slowly climbed the stairs with Sam, who seemed much happier to have been outside. When they entered the flat, he removed the scarf and Sam went off to find some water. Sherlock was in his armchair, quietly reading a newspaper. John narrowed his eyes at the man, feeling his guard go up. Something wasn't right. He noticed that the wet patch Sam had caused was covered over with newspaper sheets.

"For God's sake, Sherlock! Couldn't you have cleaned it up at least?" John looked annoyed. Sherlock threw a nonchalant glance towards the area and lowered his newspaper just enough to regard John with a 'what-do you-think-I-am?' look.

"I am no housemaid, John," he said flatly and returned to his reading. John let out a growl and threw the scarf at Sherlock. It ripped the newspaper from the detective's hands and landed on his lap, covered in dog hair, saliva and smelling quite unpleasant. John stomped into the kitchen to find some cleaning products, muttering loudly about where he'd like to stick the disinfectant bottle.

Sherlock eyed his scarf then picked it up with his index finger and thumb, holding it away from his body like it was contagious. He walked into the kitchen to dump it in the sink; John brushed past him, his face stormy. Sherlock turned to watch John set to work, and he took his chance.

"Sam!" he whispered. The dog pricked his ears expectantly, cocking his head to the side. Sherlock took his hand from behind his back to reveal the last cherry scone. He wiggled it enticingly. "Look! Another scone! You know you want it!" He glanced in John's direction shiftily but the doctor hadn't noticed, he was too busy scrubbing the carpet. Sam happily ran over and took the scone from Sherlock's hand. Sherlock smiled and made his way back to his armchair.

John looked up at him incredulously. "You're just going to sit there? Not even help?!" he said through gritted teeth.

"You missed a spot." Sherlock pointed helpfully, this time he did get the disinfectant thrown at him. He ducked just in time and chuckled.

"You're insufferable," John snapped and took the things back into the kitchen. "Sherlock?!" John's voice was now full of concern. Sherlock jumped to his feet and walked into the kitchen. As he rounded the table, he looked to where John was pointing. Sam was flat out on the floor, not moving.

"What the bloody hell have you done to the dog?!"

"He'll only be out for a few hours," Sherlock said simply.

"You drugged him?!" John asked, panic crossing his face. "What with? Have you lost your mind? You had no right!"

Sherlock sighed and waved a hand to shush him. "It's only a mild sedative. I put it in the scone."

"So they _were_ drugged," John said flatly – he was no longer shocked.

"Oh no, only that one. I made the others and offered them to you as a behavioural experiment to see how you'd react," Sherlock said as if that was normal.

John pinched his brow and concentrated on counting to ten, drawing deep breaths with each number. Sherlock watched him patiently. When John opened his eyes, the look on Sherlock's face was expectant. John read it with ease: 'the case!'

"I am not leaving the dog here."

"Oh come on, John! I need you at the crime scene!" Sherlock had moved to the door and was already pulling on his coat. "Who am I going have watching my back and being my inspiration?" Sherlock really hoped that the passionate speech would work. It didn't.

"No. If you go, you go alone," he said. He knew this would make Sherlock reconsider, he could see the detective hovering out of the corner of his eye. He bent to stroke Sam's head, the dog was sleeping contently. When John turned however, Sherlock was gone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight: He's Scone**

The doorbell rang and John went to answer it, glancing at Sam as he left to make sure he was still asleep like he had been for the last hour. He opened the door but there was no one there. A little confused, he craned his neck out to see if someone was standing beside the door. Then a package sitting on the doorstep caught his eye. It was wrapped in brown paper, the name 'SHERLOCK HOLMES' written on it in blue biro.

He frowned at the package momentarily. He picked it up. It was surprisingly light in his hands. He put it to his ear and shook it. There was little noise from whatever was inside. John carried the package upstairs with him.

Sam was beginning to wake up as his feet were moving more now. He was slowly licking his lips and sighing. John had moved him into Sherlock's chair since that seemed to be Sam's favourite place in the entire flat. John sat down in his own chair opposite Sam, studying the package in his hands. He stared at it for a few moments, trying his very best to deduce who sent it. He got as far as 'it's wrapped in brown paper' and gave up. Even the handwriting gave nothing away.

It wasn't addressed to him but he didn't hesitate further in ripping the brown wrapping paper off. Sam sighed again at the noise. Under the paper was a glossy white cardboard box.

John's phone beeped with an incoming text.

_Lestrade's an idiot._

_SH_

He rolled his eyes, his attitude to Sherlock currently set to 'ignore', and put his phone on the armrest. The white box wasn't fastened closed, so all he had to do was lift the lid. Inside was a crushed cherry scone.

The smell must have had an effect on Sam as he groggily lifted his head up. He tried to sit up, his head swaying a little. His eyes were cloudy, his tongue not quite in his mouth. He kept trying to sit up, and before John could stop him he'd manoeuvred himself into falling off the chair and onto the floor with a thud.

_The murderer is an idiot._

_SH_

Now that Sam was awake John could talk to himself without feeling foolish. "Who on earth would have known that Sherlock made scones this morning?" he wondered to himself. He stared at the crushed scone, hoping that in doing so the answer would spring out at him. "And why did he make those scones anyway?"

John's phone beeped again. He was trying to ignore Sherlock but it was difficult. He couldn't deny himself that excitement, that unpredictability, which Sherlock brought into his life.

_This taxi driver is an idiot._

_SH_

_Taxi! He must be on his way back_, John thought. Sherlock's mood after an unsatisfactory case wasn't the most pleasant thing to have to deal with. But then again, he had drugged poor Sam and run off on a case without John. Sherlock deserved to have little to show for his effort on this occasion.

More action was required however. John knew it was petty but he also knew that it would give him immense satisfaction. He left the box on his desk beside his laptop. Sam was still a little wobbly on his feet, but his tail wagged as John bent down to stroke him on the head and scratch his neck. After a few moments John led the dog into Sherlock's bedroom and pulled out a drawer.

He placed a hand on Sam's back as he said, "Sam, allow me to introduce Sherlock's sock index..."

John heard the door to the flat slamming a few minutes later. Sherlock was back, but not in time to save his socks. There was that satisfaction. He left Sam with Sherlock's socks (or what was left of some of them). He had his smug face prepared in advance, and went out into the living room to confront his flatmate.

He found Sherlock standing with his back to him at the desk. John deduced he was looking at the crushed scone. "What does it mean?" John asked, deciding to save the smug face for later.

Sherlock whipped around to face him. "It means war," he said with determination as he fastened the floral, frilly apron around his waist.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine: Sherlock's Secret Skill**

John stood back as Sherlock rushed past him and into the kitchen, all swirling apron and bouncing hair as he busied himself with the oven. John walked towards the kitchen and leaned on the door jamb, frowning at Sherlock's back.

_What on earth could force Sherlock to cook? _He thought to himself. "I didn't know you could cook," he said lightly. Sherlock ignored him but it wasn't long before the urge to correct the mistake broke his silence.

"Bake, John. I am baking, not cooking." He was measuring out various ingredients, concentration clear on his face. John could not stop the chuckle which escaped from him. Sherlock shot him a glare but continued his work.

"So… The crushed scone which was delivered?" John continued.

Sherlock let out an irritated sigh. _Can't he see I'm busy? This is important! _He thought angrily, but he was not one to leave a question unanswered.

"It is a threat. A challenge," he replied flatly. John looked more serious then. Their lives have been in danger more than once and his thoughts flicked to the gun in his bedroom.

"Who sent it?" he asked seriously.

"The government."

John let out a relieved sigh. "Oh for God's sake! This is another petty thing between you and Mycroft?!" Sherlock straightened then to give him an icy look.

"It is not petty, it is quite serious, John. I have been issued a challenge and I will not fail." John laughed again at the absurdity of it all. Sherlock looked unimpressed with him but he didn't care. "You see how the scone delivered is crushed? That is a threat that his scones will crush mine in our competition. Ha! I think not!"

"Hang on – _that's _why you made scones? You wanted me to taste them to see if they are any good? You could have just said! Not lied to make it seem like an experiment!" John said, annoyed. Sherlock sniffed.

"You would have laughed at the thought of me baking." He wrinkled his nose like he wasn't too keen on the idea himself, but a challenge was a challenge. Especially when the challenge came from Mycroft, it couldn't be ignored. John had nothing to say to that because it was true, he would have laughed like he was attempting not to now. He moved back into the living room and soon the smells of baking scones filled the flat. John's mouth watered slightly and he regretted not eating one earlier. He looked round into the kitchen to see Sherlock crouched in front of the oven; he was staring into it intently.

It wasn't long before the scones were out and on the side to cool down. John wandered in and reached for one, his hand received a sharp slap and Sherlock shook his head at him. It was then that Sam made his reappearance, also drawn into the kitchen by the delicious smells.

He had part of a sock sticking out of his mouth and another piece was stuck to his nose. Sherlock looked at the animal in disdain, figuring out instantly what had happened. He then turned his gaze to John. He was covering the lower half of his face with his hand to hide the smile that was there. Suddenly Sherlock laughed as well and bent to remove the sock fragments, he shook his head and decided he could get John back later.

A knock at the door interrupted them and Sherlock straightened straight away, hastily removing the apron just as Mycroft walked in.

"Hello, brother. Ah, I see you got my message." The elder Holmes gave a small smile.

"Indeed," Sherlock said, walking over to his brother and staring intently at him, eye to eye. John cleared his throat awkwardly and the tension broke. Mycroft moved past his brother and into the kitchen. He placed a white cardboard box, identical to the one that had been delivered, on the table. He then hooked his umbrella on the back of one of the chairs and removed his coat to lay it over the top.

"So, how are we going to judge whose skills are the greater?" Mycroft asked silkily.

"John, of course," Sherlock replied sharply. John's eyebrows rose slightly. He didn't want any part in this.

"Ah, no, I do not think so, do you Sherlock? His opinion will be biased towards you," Mycroft said flatly. It was then that he noticed Sam sitting happily beside him. His lip curled a little and he moved away.

"Hoo-hoo!" There was a call from the door. Sherlock strode over enthusiastically.

"Come in, Mrs. Hudson, you're just in time!" Sherlock said happily, but Mycroft shook his head slowly.

"Also a no, for the same reason," he told his brother triumphantly.

Sam ran to the door then, wagging his tail happily and barking. His owner, Mrs. Morton, entered the flat, patting her companion on the head happily.

"I hope he's not been a bother while I was out?" she asked looking up at the tall detective.

"Uh, no. Of course not, he's been a pleasure," John cut in with a smile before Sherlock could say anything.

"You'll do!" Sherlock said enthusiastically, leading Mrs. Morton by the arm into the kitchen to be inspected by Mycroft. She looked slightly alarmed by this.

"Yes, yes. Fine. She'll do nicely." Both the Holmes brothers looked at the old woman hungrily like they were about to eat her, Mrs. Hudson cut in.

"What on earth is going on here?" she moved beside her friend so she didn't feel so outnumbered.

"They're having a baking competition, making scones. I think Mrs. Morton has just been selected to judge," John told her.

"Oooh! When do we start? I love scones!" Mrs. Morton looked much happier and Sam barked his agreement.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten: Rivalry**

Half of the kitchen table was covered in beakers and Bunsen burners that had been shoved to one side in Sherlock's haste to start baking. The other half was scattered with flour and even the odd cherry. John picked up the cherries and threw them one-by-one across the flat for Sam to fetch while the judging area was prepared. Sam loved this new game.

Mrs. Morton took off her coat and sat down at the clearest end of the table. Sherlock presented his scones on a plate with a crisp white napkin placed underneath them. He arranged them perfectly, as far as John could tell, each scone an equal distance from the one beside it. The red cherries were little pops of bright colour on the plate.

"May I have a plate?" Mycroft asked Sherlock, indicating at his box with his hand. It was a little tatty at the corners already.

Sherlock smiled a smile laden with false sincerity. "What do you need a plate for? Your little box looks simply stunning."

Mycroft smiled thinly, not willing to start an argument over it in front of a complete stranger and someone who may take any arguments into consideration when she comes to pick the best scone. Not that Mycroft needed to worry; his scones were clearly the best.

Mrs. Hudson and John stood to watch. She was holding Mrs. Morton's coat, and Sam was licking the sleeve that was hanging down. John wasn't sure who of the Holmes brothers was going to lose their temper first. They could never keep up this friendly façade for long.

Sherlock slid his plate to a rest in front of Mrs. Morton. "These are my wonderful cherry scones, freshly baked this very afternoon."

Mrs. Morton nodded, taking it all in. "They look lovely, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"Oh please, call me Sherlock." There was that smile again.

Mycroft cleared his throat loudly and Sam wandered over to see what the matter was with him. Mycroft subtly moved his umbrella to block the dog's further advances. Sam sniffed and wandered over to sit on John's feet.

Mycroft slid his box over to Mrs. Morton. "These are my Mars bar scones, Mrs. Morton. Baked freshly this morning," he announced. "Could you please tell us whose scones you think are the best?"

Mrs. Morton took one scone from the plate and one from the box. Both Sherlock and Mycroft tensed in anticipation. Even John found himself getting caught up in the atmosphere and held his breath. All eyes in the room were on Mrs. Morton as she gave both scones the once-over. Mycroft's were taller and wider than Sherlock's, John noted with a small smile.

She suddenly looked up, frowned at both Holmes boys. "Where's my cup of tea? I can't go having scones without tea, are you mad?" Sherlock and Mycroft glanced at each other.

"I'll make you some tea," said Sherlock quickly.

It was then that John simply had to intervene – he wasn't going to let Sherlock inflict his tea on anyone. "I'll do it," he said, and he could have sworn there was a look of relief in Sherlock's eyes, if only for a second.

Sam was disgruntled at having to move just when he was getting comfortable on John's shoes. He went to sit beside Mrs. Morton, brushing past Mycroft along the way. Mycroft stared down at the dog hairs that were now on his trousers in abject distaste.

Even with a cup of tea brewing Mrs. Morton wasn't happy. "And where's the Marmite?"

Mycroft looked up, frowning slightly. "Marmite?"

"Can't have scones without Marmite, don't be silly, young man," she replied.

"But it's a taste test," Sherlock said.

"Don't worry. I won't put that much on."

John placed a mug of tea – lots of milk, four sugars – and a half-used jar of Marmite he found at the back of the cupboard in front of Mrs. Morton. She cut each scone in two, and then proceeded to cover both in what could only be described as lashings of Marmite. There was more Marmite than scone. Sherlock and Mycroft grimaced at the sight.

The flat was silent as Mrs. Morton took a bite out of Sherlock's scone first. If anything Sherlock's gaze upon her became even more intense but she didn't appear to notice, lost in her own Marmite slathered world, John imagined. She swallowed and took a gulp of her tea. She nodded and said, "Mm, that was very nice."

She then took a large bite out of Mycroft's scone. Again the flat was silent as they all watched her chew and swallow. She took another sip of her tea, wiped away the Marmite moustache she now donned, and leaned back in her chair.

Sam took a sudden interest in Mycroft's trousers. He came over to him to sniff at them. Mycroft struggled to resist the urge to swat him away, even as a drop of saliva landed on his perfectly polished shoes.

"Oh, I don't know," Mrs. Morton said, "they both tasted the same to me. I couldn't pick a winner between them. These old taste buds aren't what they used to be, you know."

"Well it's no wonder," Sherlock muttered, just quietly enough so Mrs. Morton wouldn't hear him.

Mycroft noticed the heckles rising on Sam's back, as the dog reversed away from him, and started to growl, a low guttural nose. Then Sam started barking.

"What is it, Sam? Don't be rude," said Mrs. Morton. Sam continued to growl, his teeth now flashing in Mycroft's direction. He strategically placed his umbrella between himself and the beast.

Sherlock saw an opportunity and unashamedly took it. "Admit defeat, Mycroft, or I'll set the dog on you!" he said. He was genuinely grinning this time. When Mycroft hesitated, Sherlock continued, "Sam knows my scones are better. Admit it!"

"Don't be childish," Mycroft said sharply, but he was never going to win this argument with a dog barking and growling in his face.

Sherlock picked up one of his scones and threw it at Mycroft's feet. Sam dived for it while Mycroft jumped into the air with a little squeak. Sherlock laughed. "Admit it!"

"No! My baking is better than yours." He made for the door. Sherlock picked up a scone and tore after him. He threw the scone at Mycroft once he was halfway down the stairs. As Sam chased after it, he nearly knocked Mycroft off his feet. He clasped on to the handrail for dear life.

"Admit it!"

"Fine," Mycroft sighed heavily. He stole one last glance at Sam who was licking up scattered crumbs at the bottom of the stairs. "On this one and only occasion your baking was possibly better than mine." He slumped, as if the admission had drained the last of his strength.

Sherlock nodded in satisfaction. "And when I recall this moment in my life I shall paraphrase."

"Hm," was all Mycroft said as he made his escape, giving Sam plenty of space.

When Sherlock and Sam went back into the flat, Mrs. Morton had her coat on again. She pulled a new lead out of the pocket and clipped it on to Sam's collar. "Thanks for looking after him," Mrs. Morton said.

"It was no trouble," said John honestly. He had loved having the dog in the flat. He bent down to give Sam a little hug, and the dog licked his nose. He smiled.

Sam moved on to Sherlock next. He looked down at the dog, into brown eyes that displayed nothing but love and affection and happiness. "Good dog," he said quietly. He scratched Sam's ear and Sam licked his hand.

"I'll see you to the door," Mrs. Hudson said, taking the older woman by the arm.

John and Sherlock watched them go, waiting for Sam to look back at them with a goodbye in his eyes. For some reason he couldn't quite fathom, Sherlock had quite enjoyed having a dog in the flat once he'd stopped being annoying. "Sentiment," he mumbled quietly to himself in a distasteful tone. Just as he turned away, Sam looked back.


	11. Epilogue

**Author's Notes: Hello, it's Random Ruth here! I'd just like to point out that this has been one of the most enjoyable stories to write with tonilouise95. A whole-hearted thank you to everyone who's read this far. I really should write something funny here. Ah, well. Our next story shall be funny to make up for it.**

* * *

**Epilogue**

A few days had passed since Sam's visit and 221B was back to the normal routine. Sherlock had a new case and all was as calm as was ever going to be.

"One of these days, I will open this fridge and we will not need milk, Sherlock," John said pointedly towards the living room.

"I don't see why you always get annoyed with me! I take my coffee black after all; it is you using most of the milk," Sherlock said distractedly.

"That is not the point!" John called back but his voice held no annoyance.

"Fine. I'll go get some, right now." Sherlock stood and was already half way into his coat when John popped his head round the door. He was frowning.

"Why?" he looked suspicious and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He fixed his freshly dry-cleaned scarf around his neck.

"Really, John, here you go again assuming everything I do must have some kind of devious reasoning behind it. Maybe I just want to?" Sherlock told him with a smile.

"You're up to something, I don't like it." John stared at him with narrowed eyes. Sherlock waved him away with a gesture of his hand, gave a small nod and was gone from the flat. John went back to making his tea, still frowning. He couldn't shake the feeling that Sherlock was up to no good!

He looked at the clock – ten minutes had passed. _Calm down John, you're being irrational, _he scolded himself mentally. Time ticked on slowly. Now it was twenty minutes, the shop was only five minutes down the road. Maybe it was busy. As the clock showed half an hour had passed, John found himself drumming his fingers and checking his phone every few seconds for a text that didn't appear. Another five minutes and he was pacing up and down the living room floor.

He caught himself and laughed. He was picking up on Sherlock's habits. He threw himself forcefully into his armchair and made himself stay there. But he soon found himself texting his flatmate.

_Where are you? Did you collapse from the effort of buying milk?_

He was more worried than his text sounded. Situations flashed through his mind. Anything could have happened, especially since it was Sherlock Holmes. In his mind he saw Sherlock being kidnapped, mugged, shot; the list was endless. Time seemed to drag even slower as no reply came through. No, it was OK. He probably just went off on some kind of lead. That would be like him to change plans and not tell anyone. But why wouldn't he text?

_Come on, no one takes 45 minutes to get milk._

An hour had passed and John was at his wits end. He noticed he was chewing the inside of his lip nervously.

_FOR GOD'S SAKE SHERLOCK GIVE ME SOME KIND OF RESPONSE!_

He couldn't hold out any longer – he ran up to his bedroom and retrieved his gun; he placed it at the small of his back. Taking a calming deep breath he grabbed his coat and shut the door to the flat. He dashed down the stairs, his face grim. He had to find Sherlock. As he opened the front door in a hurry he ran straight into the detective who seemed to be struggling to get his key.

John let the stress escape him in a massive sigh.

"Sherlock, where the hell have you been?! You could have answered your bloody pho—" John stopped as he noticed the taller man looked quite flustered as the front of his coat wriggled. It was done up and bulged quite a bit, just under the scarf. John stared for a moment, confusion clear on his face. "What…" he started but as he spoke a tiny head popped up through the scarf. It was a beagle puppy. John looked from the tiny furry head with bright eyes to Sherlock's face which had split into a smile. The worry was forgotten.

"Well don't just stand there! Let us in!" Sherlock chuckled and walked passed John and up the stairs. John followed him looking dumbfounded. When they reached the flat, Sherlock was undoing his coat but the puppy had a mouthful of his scarf and was emitting a high pitched, playful growl. John observed the scene, still not quite understanding. Sherlock managed to untangle the dog from his scarf and held him out towards John. When John didn't respond Sherlock huffed.

"Please take the animal. It's already ruined my second best shirt." He had tried to sound indifferent but he couldn't keep the smile from his face. John took the puppy into his arms and it promptly started to lick his chin. He let out a boyish giggle. Sherlock looked satisfied.

"I don't understand," John said almost to the puppy rather than to Sherlock.

"Well I saw how much you enjoyed having Sam around and… ahem, yes, well. It seemed like a good idea," Sherlock informed him, looking down at his stained shirt. "However _you_ will most certainly be the one to look after it." John didn't seem to care; he was now sitting on the floor with the puppy in his lap.

"What should we call him?" he asked looking up at his companion.

"I was thinking Hamish. And I didn't get any milk."

**The End**

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**Author's Notes: Hey guys, its tonilouise95. I would just like to say thank you so so much for reading, for the continued support and kind words! It honestly does mean so much to both me and Random Ruth. I hope you enjoyed this wacky tale, I know I did! Neither of us knew what was going to happen next. Expect more in the future! **


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